CTown and Constant Comment
by Cardinal Robbins
Summary: SVU AU John Munch sees The Enigma in his neighborhood once more, as he shops at the local supermarket. Another of the Near Misses series, prequels to November Rain. Will John meet her this time? Read to find out!


John Munch was down to his last crust of bread, literally

"**C-Town and Constant Comment"**

By Cardinal Robbins

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C-Town definitely exists in the Inwood/Washington Heights area. I'm not sure exactly where this fits in, but it's part of the pre-November Rain "Near Misses" series. Hope you enjoy it. There are a lot of little details included for those who regularly read my AU fics.

John Munch doesn't belong to me, but – thanks to WGAw – Sarah Zelman does.

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John Munch was down to his last crust of bread, literally.

As he pulled the last slice of Russian rye out of its package, he looked into the refrigerator and groaned. _Empty_. Unless you consider the remaining three slices of Oscar Mayer olive loaf, a third of a jar of spicy brown mustard and the dregs of an outdated carton of milk to count as something.

It had been a long week, counted in terms of hours of sleep lost to a complex case they'd finally closed. He hadn't thought much about food, not having had time to so much as walk to the corner deli when he did have a few moments at home. Time in his apartment had been spent showering, shaving, then changing clothes before rushing back to the precinct. And now here he was, staring down an open fridge that could provide him with virtually nothing.

He made a makeshift sandwich from what was left, poured the milk down the sink and chased it with a liberal amount of hot water. When he opened the door to the cabinet on his right, he let fly with a few words his mother would never approve of. He was completely out of tea, save for one lonely soldier from a box of twenty-four Lipton bags he found in the far back. When he opened it, the bag separated, dusty fragments of long-dried out tea leaves drifting down to the countertop. With a deep sigh, he tossed the empty box into the brown paper bag he used for recycling – defeated.

It was five-thirty on that Friday when he realized a trip to C-Town was part of his immediate future. A local supermarket, the place was big enough to provide everything he needed but friendly enough to make him think he was shopping at a small town grocer's. Usually, he could walk a couple of blocks to a corner deli, pick up a few things to tide him over for a couple-three days, then do what he considered serious shopping every three weeks or so. This time, he'd waited far too long for such a stop-gap.

Parking at C-Town was easy at sunset, the start of the Jewish Sabbath, when many of the people in his neighborhood walked to local synagogues for worship. He pulled his Honda Accord into a fairly close spot, next to a spotless gold Saturn sedan. Careful not to leave a door ding in its side, he wearily pulled himself out of his car and went inside.

He browsed the produce section half-heartedly, preferring to buy his fruits and vegetables at the neighborhood farmer's market every Saturday morning. This time, he relented and carefully picked out a few tangelos and debated buying bananas as well. His mind drifted back to the Chiquita banana jingle as he softly whistled it, if only to purge it from his head.

A flash of reddish-blonde hair caught his attention and he turned to watch as a familiar woman walked by him, seemingly not seeing anyone as she went about her shopping. Baggy blue t-shirt pulled over well-worn jeans, she didn't even try to hide the bulge of a Glock 35 exposed at her side. He'd long ago dubbed her 'The Enigma,' considering no matter how hard he tried he couldn't seem to find out her name or exactly where she lived.

Her cart was partially filled, which intrigued him that much more. _What does an enigma eat?_ Aside from broccoli, cauliflower, sugar snap peas and a large bag of peeled baby carrots, he wasn't entirely sure. He knew that much because not far past him she'd momentarily walked away from her cart, leaving him alone with his observational skills. John vowed to work his surveillance abilities to their utmost, surreptitiously tailing her around the store to see what she bought. Curiosity was hard-coded into his DNA.

Munch maintained a reasonable distance as he cautiously deliberated in the dairy aisle, adding a carton of milk and six flavors of original Danon yogurt to his cart. He noticed she bought 12 fat-free, sugar-free containers – every single one of them strawberry, along with a half-gallon each of chocolate and vanilla soymilk.

John could tell by the expression on her face she didn't shop by rote, instead she thought carefully about her purchases. In the section of the store where the lunchmeat was sold, she looked at labels and sighed before tossing in packages of thin-sliced turkey and chicken.

He shrugged and gave in to his usual pickle-pimento loaf, pastrami and chopped ham, to be coupled with provolone cheese. As an afterthought, he picked up some thickly-sliced Swiss before adding a package of cheddar to his cart. Her taste in cheese was a bit more eclectic, ranging from orange-rind Muenster to Jarlsberg Lite. He wondered if she'd ever enjoyed the pairing of grilled onion and provolone on toasted Russian rye, chased by a cold lager. Somehow, he wasn't sure she looked like the type who'd appreciate such a culinary masterwork. She appeared to him to be the tuna salad on wheat type of woman, who ate between assignments while sipping Diet Coke.

John watched as she ducked down the health and beauty aisle, positioning his cart near an end-dump display of coffee beans and the bright red grinder he knew rendered anything it touched to grounds too fine for most coffee filters. He made a mental note to pick up an extra can of Folger's for Cragen. As he pretended to peruse a bag of beans, she emerged from the aisle with a twin pack of Dove soap and a bottle of Herbal Essence shampoo. He turned his back to her for a moment as she went down the ethnic foods aisle.

Munch wondered if she'd ever used the original Herbal Essence shampoo with its undeniably unique scent, reminiscent of the 1960's. A smile played at the corners of his mouth as he thought of her, flowers in her hair at a protest rally, wearing bell-bottom jeans and an embroidered peasant blouse. Had she done so in reality? Had she dabbed on patchouli perfume to hide the smell of good-quality grass? He could easily see her in that context, but couldn't imagine her doing the harder drugs he'd experimented with back then.

He was jostled from his reverie by someone who accidentally bumped him, as they tried to get to the grinder. John said, "Sorry," as he moved out of the way with his cart, deciding to nonchalantly look for whom he considered 'his' Enigma. When he found her, she was pulling six cans of Manischewitz chicken soup with matzo balls off the shelves, along with a large canister of whole-wheat matzo farfel and a couple chocolate raspberry crème bars imported from Israel. At some point, she'd also discovered some cornmeal rye and a package of bagels.

_Is she actually Jewish?_ Munch gave the question some careful thought, considering each time he caught a glimpse of her, she didn't obviously 'look' like a Jew. He mentally chastised himself for thinking solely in terms of stereotype, yet he couldn't help it. She could easily 'pass,' something that probably helped her do her job if it included surveillance in various locations. They both lived in an area with a large population of Jews, all types of them, with Orthodox visible more than Conservative or Reform. As he put a couple cans of chili into his cart, he continued to wonder if she was observant or simply hooked on foods she remembered from her childhood. _She can't be too observant since she's here and not at shul,_ he thought.

When he turned down the next aisle, there she was in the frozen foods section, her cart sporting two boxes of Eggo blueberry waffles while he grabbed several Stouffer's entrees. She preferred Stouffer's as well, but it was from their Lean Cuisine line and he was baffled at why she thought she needed low-calorie meals. He chose some vegetables, too, mostly microwaveable potatoes instead of the green beans and broccoli his mother made him eat as a young boy. He didn't have to answer to Mom at his age, which meant he regularly raided the aisle of its Buffalo wings, cheese sticks, pizza rolls, pork dim sum, and anything else that could be stuck in a micro for less than five minutes. On a whim, he also dropped a box of steak taquitos into his cart.

She was suddenly looking at the ice cream with all the intensity of someone studying for the sergeant's exam. Seemingly transfixed by the overburdened shelves of frosty delights, she finally settled on a pint of Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia. At that moment, he knew she'd been a flower child – and probably a Grateful Dead fan, too.

As he saw her in the reflection of the freezer compartment's glass doors, he had a feeling she'd not only made him for a cop but wondered if he was a stalker as well. After all, she was in law enforcement in some capacity, he could tell. And yet, that was all he knew, because she was impeccable at keeping a low profile. Once she left, he put a box of Rocket Pops into his cart and bought his own pint of Cherry Garcia – his favorite flavor – to celebrate putting down the latest case.

He caught up with her again in the beverage aisle, where she was taking a familiar-looking box of the shelves: Constant Comment. _She's a tea drinker,_ he thought, buoyed by the knowledge they had something else in common besides yogurt, ice cream and potentially dangerous weapons.

This time, he was determined to talk with her, to come up with something witty she couldn't resist, maybe something about what was in her cart. No, he decided, too obvious he'd been tailing her. The weather? Far too banal. Sports? Maybe, but which one would interest her? 'The Job'? _Damn it, think!_ _What should I say?_ he asked himself, grasping at any shred of a viable topic. _Gee, are you a cop, too? I noticed your weapon. I used to carry one just like it. Smooth, John…real smooth. She'll fall head over heels for you if you start off with that._ Before he could come up with something better, she was out of sight once more.

He and his cart on one side of the store, she'd browsed her way to the opposite end. As he tried to stealthily follow her, they inadvertently missed each other, trading ends once more. As he tried to head toward a central aisle to allow himself greater visibility, he heard a familiar voice call his name. "John? John Munch, is that you?"

The elderly Mrs. McGillian had spotted his tall, lanky frame, almost unmistakable despite her thick-lenses and questionable vision. She was standing toward the front of the cereal aisle, motioning for him to come over. "Can you help me, darling? You're much taller than I am," she cooed appreciatively.

"Of course I can," he replied, hoping things would go quickly. "What do you need me to reach? The Froot Loops?" He knew that had to be it, as he reached up and pulled down a box.

"Thank you, John," she said, as he put the cereal in her cart. "You know my Gerald… Mister McGillian loves his morning bowl of Froot Loops almost more than he's loved me over the past sixty years." She put her hand on his arm and smiled. "You need to find someone, too. All those hours alone can't be good for your health. Even my Gerald says it's healthier to have someone nagging at you all the time, than to be left alone with only your thoughts. He's a smart man, my Gerald."

John tried not to visibly cringe, unsure if Harriet would catch the gesture with her sight anyway. "I'm sure he's right, Mrs. McGillian," he forced himself to agree. "Now, if you'll excuse me… I need to get to the check-out line before my ice cream melts." He tried to extricate himself from her grasp before she coerced him down another aisle to reach something else.

He tried not to tell the checkout clerk to hurry, he tried harder still not to go to the end of the counter and start bagging his own groceries before someone came over to do it for him. A glance out the door confirmed it: _The gold Saturn sedan belonged to her._ His pulse quickened a bit as he realized he was parked right next to her. She was loading her purchases into the trunk as the cashier tried her best to engage him in conversation about a thunderstorm moving into the area soon. _The license plate,_ he thought furtively. _John, why in the hell didn't you think to jot down the plate number in case it was hers?_

Hindsight being 20/20, his curiosity flared with all the intensity he'd experienced when he saw Kay Howard kissing her new boyfriend in Baltimore not all that long ago. He'd written down the license plate then, but hadn't managed to find out whom she'd been with or where he lived.

The sedan hadn't pulled out of its space just yet…there was still time, if only the people momentarily holding his groceries hostage would hurry. He pulled bills from his wallet, took the change and almost yanked the cart from the bagging clerk as he mumbled a quick, "Thanks."

As he nearly bolted for the parking lot, he saw her car pulling away. "Son of a bitch! John, you suck at this!" he muttered under his breath, sure he'd missed his last chance.

Munch had lost her once again. She was in the wind, off to whichever building she called home, to unload her groceries and live her life not knowing how much he longed to talk with her. Maybe it was purely wishful thinking on his part, but he was compelled to see if they had anything at all in common aside from them both wearing firearms.

The Enigma never seemed to shy completely away from him, never showed any sign of trepidation as he observed her from a distance, didn't seem to mind how much he was intrigued by her. Could it be she was as curious about him as he was of her? John fervently hoped it was true; perhaps she wanted to initiate conversation but was simply too shy.

He went back to his apartment and unloaded his groceries into a place he dwelled with only books, music and case-files to keep him company. A cup of Earl Grey tea brewing, he took off his Glock and hefted it, before putting it in its lockbox. He wondered if she of the strawberry blonde hair and worn jeans was doing the same thing, somewhere close to where he lived.

As he heard the heavy rain against his windows, John put a vinyl record on the turntable, a collection of melancholy jazz that matched his mood. As he drank his tea in the low light of his living room, the storm railing above, he consoled himself with the knowledge he wasn't the only one without someone to hold close. He also realized he knew a little bit more about his Enigma: They both shopped at C-Town and as he sipped his tea, she was drinking a cup of Constant Comment.

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